The Sky Painted with His Blood
by Swirling Dreams
Summary: John always loved watching the sun rise. When he was in Afghanistan it was like a lighthouse, always reminding him that he was still alive, and to be grateful for it. But he couldn't watch them anymore. Not since…the fall.  Post-Reichenbach. One-shot.
1. Chapter 1

Where did this come from? It actually happened to me on the bus yesterday. School starts at 7:30, so I get to watch the sunrise usually. Yesterday I looked out at the dull, blue and gray sky and say these small spatters of bright and deep red. And my mind flashed to that image of Sherlock on the pavement, his blood streaked across his face, looking so red in comparison to his marble skin.

And I thought, how hard it would be for John to have to see his best friend like that. And then to walk outside and have the sky remind him of it.

And I'm in a bit of a low right now, so I wanted to write something sad to get it out.

* * *

><p>John couldn't watch sunrises anymore after Sherlock…died. He could barely bring himself to say his best friend's name without his voice cracking. He didn't know if his ability to acknowledge Sherlock's absence had gotten better or worse–some days he could go all day hearing his name without crying, and some days all it took was seeing someone in a trench coat or blue scarf.<p>

But he could not watch sunrises anymore. He had seen one a few weeks after Sherlock's fall.

All he had done was go outside in the morning. To watch one of his favorite things. Sunrises. When he was in Afghanistan, it was like a lighthouse, showing him that even though he was thousands of miles away from England, that he wasn't as far as he could be, because he could still watch the sun rise. He knew it was hard to describe, but it made him feel normal in the midst of the violence and horror.

And so, he had walked outside of their flat. The cold air hitting his face. And although he couldn't bring himself to smile, he sat on the front step of 221B Baker Street and (almost excitedly) waited for the sunrise.

It did eventually come. Probably only after 10 minutes of sitting there on that cold step.

Blue and gray sky, like the normal early morning sky always was. The scarlet sun just peeking out of horizon. John looked down at his feet. He still felt empty.

And then he looked up at the sky again, probably only a minute or two later, to see that dark red streaks were now coming from the center. His heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened. The streaks looked just like…

"Oh God." John exhaled, whimpering.

The image of his friend's pale face, spattered with his own deep red blood. All over the sidewalk. A vivid stroke of it across his eyes. Like war paint. The same color as the streaks across the pale blue and gray sky. The same pattern.

On the one thing he thought he could always rely on to be there for him–sunsets.

John stood. A single tear rolled down his face. No heavy sobbing. No true sadness. He just felt broken.

He turned around, went back inside, and slept for the rest of the day. From that day on he made sure to not look outside until almost noon. Just to be safe. Just to make sure he didn't see Sherlock's blood seeping into the sky.


	2. Chapter 2: Edited Version

John couldn't watch sunrises anymore after Sherlock died. There were so_ many_ things he couldn't do anymore, so many things he couldn't look at, or say…because they all reminded him of _him._ He could barely bring himself to say his best friend's name without having his voice crack, and he couldn't tell if his ability to acknowledge his absence had gotten better or worse. While some days he could hear the name all day without shedding a tear, there were others when seeing someone in a black coat or blue scarf was all it took to make his body an uncontrollable, shaking mess.

But he couldn't watch sunrises anymore, not after what he'd seen.

It had been a few weeks after Sherlock's fall–all he had done was go outside one morning.

To watch one of his favorite things. Sunrises. When he had been in Afghanistan, it was like a lighthouse, showing him that even though he was thousands of miles away from home, that he could still watch the sun rise just like anyone else in England could watch the sun rise. It made him feel normal in the midst of the violence and horror that he drowned in every day. But that had been nothing in comparison to the pain he felt in Sherlock's absence. He felt as lifeless as his friend had looked lying on that sidewalk.

And so he walked outside of their flat with an open mind, determined to take in everything he saw, just in case it made him feel alive again. The cold air that had hit his face when he first stepped out seemed like an encouraging sign to him, even if it stung his dry skin and chapped lips. It felt real. So much better than what he had been experiencing those past few weeks. He couldn't bring himself to smile but it was a start, and he sat on the front step of 221B Baker Street and (almost excitedly) waited for the sunrise.

It did eventually come. Probably only after 10 minutes of sitting there on that cold step.

A blue and gray sky, like the normal early morning sky always was, and nothing in comparison to the radiance of Sherlock's eyes, so he felt no temptation to cry. The scarlet sun was just peeking out of the horizon. John looked down at his feet. He still felt so empty. He prayed that it would all get better, and that _he_ would get better.

And then he looked up at the sky again, probably only a minute or two later, to see dark red streaks cutting violently against the blue and gray clouds. His heart skipped a beat. His eyes widened. The streaks…they looked just like…like…

"Oh, God." John exhaled, trembling.

He could see it all so clearly. The image of his friend's pale face, spattered with his own deep red blood. All over the pavement. A vivd stroke of it across his eyes. Like war paint. The exact same color as the streaks across the pale sky. The exact same pattern. A horrifying picture in the one thing he thought he could always rely on–sunrises.

John stood. He felt no urge to cry, nor any unadulterated sadness–just loss. He felt broken.

He turned around, went back inside, and slept for the rest of the day. From that day on he made sure not to look outside until almost noon. Just to be safe. Just to make sure he didn't see Sherlock's blood seeping into the sky.


End file.
